Embrace God's truth with our new book, The Lies that Bind
That Saturday morning last April I had butterflies, waiting for some special guests to arrive.
A month earlier I’d found out that I won the New Year, New You contest. Even though the people at Guideposts said I’d been chosen because I showed the most promise of all the entrants, I couldn’t quite believe it.
My self-esteem was at an all-time low, my weight was at an all-time high and I certainly didn’t feel like a winner.
Any minute now the Guideposts Dream Team of lifestyle change coaches would be knocking at my door.
I’d seen their photos in my January 2009 issue, and I could picture the four of them charging into my house, ready for their mission, which, as the contest announcement put it, was “to develop a personalized healthy living plan” for me. Lord knows, I prayed for it and needed it!
It wasn’t that I wasn’t grateful for the many blessings in my life. My marriage to my high school sweetheart, Greg, still going strong after 25 years; our two wonderful sons, K.C. and Chris; the dream house we were building; my hard-earned college degree (I’d gone back to school at 36 and graduated at 40); my job as a sixth-grade teacher; my extended family, numerous friends and a terrific church family.
But I had plenty of problems too. My weight had been an issue since childhood, and it was a major factor in my health problems—foot and back pain (exacerbated by being on my feet all day teaching), pre-hypertension and pre-diabetes.
I was only 42, much too young to be having so many physical issues. I knew I needed to get healthier, but where would I even start? After all, I’d tried nearly every diet out there.
Physical fitness—or lack thereof—was another issue. Before the contest, I’d tried once again to get into shape by walking. I could barely walk a mile at first.
I’d reared two athletic sons, soccer players who ran up and down the field, and I yearned to be able to run with them.
But after a long day at school and helping out with activities like the children’s group at church, I was done. I had to decline when my coworker Dianne invited me to work out with her after school.
Yet the problem I struggled with most was my negative thinking. It was at the root of all my other issues. Even with so many blessings in my life, I often felt like the world was crashing down on me.
It was as if all the insults that had been leveled at me about my weight over the years had eaten away at my soul. I doubted my willpower, even doubted my faith was strong enough to make the changes in my life I knew I had to make.
At last a car pulled into the drive. I flung open the door. The Dream Team was here! There was a flurry of hugs and introductions.
I recognized them all—Theresa Rowe, fitness expert; Kevin Carroll, motivational speaker; Rebecca Katz, chef and nutritionist; Julie Hadden, my favorite contestant from The Biggest Loser.
Someone—I think it was Kevin—said, “Tammie, are you ready to change your life?”
“I’m ready!” Time for the Dream Team to get to work.
Rebecca took on a huge challenge: teaching me how to buy and cook healthy food. She almost fainted when she looked in my pantry. I don’t think she’d ever seen so many boxes of Hamburger Helper outside of a grocery store.
She showed me how to read food labels, so I’d know the nutritional content and the stuff to stay away from, like high-fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated oils.
Cut out processed and fried foods, she said, and ramp up the fruits and vegetables. But what would I feed Greg and the boys? They weren’t big on vegetables.
“I’m just trying to cook what they like,” I explained. Rebecca wasn’t having it.
“If you want to change, you can’t fall back on what you’ve always done. You need to make conscious choices,” she said. “It won’t kill your family to get off the fried stuff. Eating healthier will help all of you live longer. That’s what you want for those you love, right?”
Of course! I just hadn’t thought of it like that.
Kevin’s known as Mr. Positivity, and I could see why. He exudes positive energy.
“It’s great that you want to make lifestyle changes. You’ve gotta aim high,” Kevin said. “The way to reach a big goal is to set smaller goals leading up to it. Achieve one goal, then go for the next. When you reach a goal, reward yourself. But not with food.”
He suggested going to a movie with Greg or taking a break from housework and spending some quiet time with God. What really got me was that Kevin said when I reach a goal. Not if, when.
I was intimidated by Theresa at first. She’s in fantastic shape and serious about fitness. I thought she would be like those scary, in-your-face trainers I’d seen on TV, but she turned out to be deeply spiritual—a soul trainer.
When I admitted I hated to exercise, Theresa wasn’t fazed. “Don’t think of it as a chore. Think of it as a time to be with the Lord and to praise him,” she said. “Say you’re power walking. Look around at all the Lord has created and give thanks.” Exercise as a form of prayer? Now that I could relate to!
I felt like I knew Julie already from watching The Biggest Loser and reading her cover story in Guideposts last January. In person, she’s even more inspiring.
She gave me lots of tips, like keeping a journal to record every calorie I put in my mouth as well as every calorie I burned. And asking myself why I’m reaching for food: “Am I really hungry? Or am I bored? Upset? Stressed?”
The most important lesson Julie taught me had nothing to do with eating or exercise, and everything to do with my emotional and spiritual well-being.
That afternoon a photographer came to take pictures of me in front of our azaleas. “I hope you have your wide-angle lens,” I joked.
Julie pounced on me like a dog on a June bug. “Do you realize what you do to your mindset when you say things like that, Tammie? You’ve got to cut that out. Now I want you to say, ‘I am worthy of this opportunity.’”
I opened my mouth but I couldn’t get the words out. Tears sprang to my eyes. I hadn’t felt worthy of anything for so long. In fact, I’d lived my life feeling just the opposite. “Say it, Tammie.”
It took me a few tries but I finally got it out: “I am worthy.” Whoa. I could feel myself standing taller, facing the world with more confidence. Who knew three simple words could be so powerful?
It was an intense weekend. Sunday evening my Dream Team coaches went home. They’d be in touch regularly, but now it was up to me to put all the good information they’d given me into practice.
First, I found a workout partner. Like Theresa advised, I chose someone who liked to exercise every day, so her commitment would strengthen mine: Dianne.
I joined the gym and met her there every day after school. I set my first small goal: running a mile. Dianne cheered me on from the next treadmill, “Just one more minute, Tammie. You can do anything for a minute!” The day I ran my first mile, I don’t know who cried harder, Dianne or me.
Next challenge: eating healthy. It certainly took a lot longer to shop when I read the labels. But choosing fruits, vegetables and lean protein was worth it. I’m worth it, I reminded myself.
My men were taken aback when I declared our kitchen a no-fry zone, but they got into it once they realized food that’s good for them could still taste good.
Regular exercise worked wonders. I had the energy to keep up with the kids at church even after a long day at school. I increased the distance I ran to three miles. Then I set another goal: running a 5K.
Chris decided he’d do the race with me, so we trained together over the summer. He ran figure eights around me, that smart aleck, but what a joy it was to be working out with my son!
Of course, obstacles cropped up—the pizza party for my mom’s birthday, trips out of town, those five weeks when I hit a plateau and didn’t lose an ounce. But I drew on the support of the Dream Team, my family and friends, and powered through.
Most of all, I drew on my faith. It struck me that all those excuses I used to make—I’m just meant to be big, I’m too tired to exercise, my guys won’t go for vegetables—were a form of negative thinking. A way of telling myself “I can’t” when God was trying to show me I can.
As Dianne pointed out when I got down on myself, “You graduated college with a 4.0 GPA while working full-time. You accomplished that; you can accomplish anything you set your mind to.”
Like that 5K. I ran all the way to the finish line. When I told my class, one of the kids, bless his heart, said, “Awesome! Mrs. Temple, you should try out to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader!” That’s not my next goal, but I sure like that line of thinking.
It reminds me of one of my favorite Scriptures, from Hebrews: “Let us lay aside every weight…and let us run with endurance the race set before us looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith.”
A year ago I never would’ve dreamed I’d be able to get healthy, lose more than 60 pounds or run five miles (that’s what I’m up to now). Just goes to show what’s possible when you set aside the weight of your negative thinking and see the potential God sees in you!
The dictionary definition of a “habit” describes a behavior that’s routine, settled, and often done subconsciously. You might not even notice it in your everyday life.
Psychology tells us that new routines take a long time to adopt—and possibly even longer to break. Two months of consistent investment in new behavior is just the starting place to ensure a sustainable, fully integrated habit.
This is a time of year to get excited about launching new behaviors, breaking old ones, and giving our lives a general refresh. But knowing what’s involved with making changes, it’s smart and healthy to pause and review what we’re currently doing on a daily basis.
READ MORE: 12 Positive Habits and How to Stick to Them
If habits are mostly subconscious, after all, who’s to say we won’t be reinventing the wheel by committing to new ones? Here’s how to start an inventory.
Plan on 2-4 days that are examples of your typical routine, and grab a notebook or open an electronic document to track your habits. A single thought-scan of your day isn’t enough to identify repeat behaviors, or notice the subtleties of habits that aren’t obvious at first glance.
READ MORE: A Simple Morning Habit to Improve Your Day
Wake-up, mealtimes, work routines, evening patterns, and bedtime are spaces we move through each and every day. Start there. Note behaviors you notice, like whether you get up from your desk every hour to re-fill your water bottle or grab a snack. Don’t judge or evaluate your habits, just list them.
READ MORE: How to Build Up Your Prayer Life by Habit Stacking
Look at your habits. Do they have something in common? Do you see categories of behavior, like responses to stressors, or managing energy fluctuations, or keeping track of complex schedules? Reflect on your behaviors with an eye toward what is serving your positive, inspired life—and what you want and need to release or replace.
This exercise will give you solid ground from which to launch new healthy habits in this new season. After all, when you have a clear vision of where you are, you can more easily step toward the place you want to be.
How clear a picture do you think you have of your current habits?
Content provided by the Good Samaritan Society.
After 47 years working in healthcare administration, and 15 years of being retired, Dr. Judy Ryan has had ample opportunity to reflect on the ways retirement changed her life.
If you’re getting ready to retire, Judy has seven questions to help you prepare.
1. What concept guides your life?
Turning to scripture helped Judy, a former president and CEO of The Evangelical Lutheran Good Samaritan Society, reflect on what it means to make life-changing decisions. The word “kavod” helped her wrestle with the impact of leaving her career.
“Kavod means something like wisdom, but heavy — the capacity to think about this world and the next, and to make life decisions based on that process of moving from this world to the next,” Judy says. “It is closely related to the idea of a discerning heart. It is both noun and verb, a dialogue with God.”
2. Do you have time to be creative?
For Judy, work in medical policy and advocacy kept her from artistic endeavors. During retirement in Key West, Florida, she began to paint.
3. Have you found a vibrant retirement community?
Think about home maintenance and medical care. But also look for a place that offers things like group activities, outings, and a spiritual community that inspires you.
4. Have you found services for older adults in your community?
Judy and her husband, Rocky, planned financially for retirement, but not everyone has that luxury. If you don’t feel financially secure, look into free and low-cost services in your area. Meals on Wheels and Senior Companions are two programs that can enhance your well-being on a budget.
5. Are you compassionate with others?
This could mean visiting residents in a nursing home, or spending time listening to people with views that differ from yours.
6. Do you have a spiritual focus in your life?
“Having some concept of God absolutely directs the way I live my life,” Judy says. “Find your own faith experience that allows you to experience that.”
7. How can you remain involved in things you’re passionate about?
Themes of advocacy, care and education all came up over and over throughout Judy’s life, so she felt called to keep working on those areas of her life in retirement.
For you, personal interests and skills might lead you to volunteer in a career field that was important to you, serve as a mentor or pass along life stories to your family members.
No matter how you spend your time, Judy’s got one bit of healthcare advice for you:
“Don’t take yourself so seriously,” she says. “Laughter is good medicine. It just plain is.”
Most people are just starting adult life in their twenties. I feel as if I have lived a lifetime already.
I took my first drink when I was 14. I was an alcoholic before I graduated high school. I was kicked out of one college and dropped out of another. Along the way, I got arrested for public intoxication and driving under the influence. Four months after the DUI, I was fired from my job at a fast-food restaurant. I was close to broke. My parents had run out of ideas for trying to help me.
I was 21. Alcohol had crippled my life before I was old enough to drink legally.
How did I sink so low so fast? How did I climb back up?
I hear those questions a lot in my current job as an administrator at a sober living facility in Austin, Texas, called Alpha 180, which specializes in people like me: young adults whose lives were being wrecked by drugs or alcohol.
The residents of Alpha 180 come from many backgrounds. We all have one thing in common: We once thought of drugs and alcohol as harmless rites of passage for teens and young adults.
We found out the hard way that, for people prone to addiction, the real rite of passage is learning to live an adult life without the crutch of intoxication. It’s a lesson I wish I’d learned a long time ago. I’m grateful that in my new life and my work, helping people like me, I’m getting to grow up at last.
There’s no obvious reason why I became an alcoholic. I grew up in a stable, happy family with loving parents. Dad was an accountant. Mom stayed home with me and my younger sister, Sara. Church was a big part of our lives. I went to a small Christian private school.
Despite all those good things, I somehow became convinced that drinking was a sign of grown-up sophistication. In middle school, I had a vague sense that somewhere out there all the cool kids were drinking and having a great time. I wanted in on that.
One day, I reached into my parents’ liquor cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka. My parents hardly ever drank. Mostly the small cabinet in the living room stayed shut.
I uncapped the vodka bottle and took a sip. Disgusting! I choked and nearly spit it out.
And yet, at the same time, I tasted liberation in that vodka. Freedom from my 14-year-old insecurities. Access to that cool grown-up life I’d envisioned. I took another drink and another until I was buzzed. That feeling I liked a lot. I hit the liquor cabinet more times before discovering there really were cool (to me) kids at school who drank. Soon I was partying with them. A few kids’ parents didn’t seem to care what we did, so we drank at their house.
My own parents were clueless. Once, they caught me coming home with alcohol on my breath, but I swore it was my first time and promised it would never happen again. They grounded me, but that was all. I kept up with school and other activities, so no one suspected anything.
My problem with alcohol worsened during college. Dramatically. Unsupervised, I drank whenever I wanted. That grown-up life I’d envisioned, surrounded by all the cool people with drinks in their hands? The reality was me sitting alone in my dorm every day, getting wasted and sending drunk text messages to my friends. Really cool, right?
One of those texts got me kicked out of school. I texted something nasty and threatening about a professor, and the text wound up with campus police.
A few hours later, officers were pounding on my door. I was arrested for threatening a faculty member. I couldn’t even remember what I’d written. Administrators told me I could leave the school or face charges. I left.
My parents were stunned but tried to be supportive. They let me live at home while I applied to a new college, Texas A&M. I kept things together until I started school. Then it was back to daily drinking.
I lasted less than a year at Texas A&M. Late one night, I came reeling out of a bar and got arrested for public intoxication. Ten months later, while driving drunk to meet some friends, I blasted through a small town at highway speed and got pulled over. I failed a sobriety test and went to jail.
My parents found an outpatient rehab program. I attended halfheartedly for a week before relapsing. Part of the problem was that most of the other people in the program were older than I was. I convinced myself they were the real alcoholics. I was just a college kid who liked to party.
I can handle this, I told myself. I’d snap out of it after growing up a little—graduating, getting married, landing a great job.
The job I got? Behind the counter at Chik-fil-A.
By this point, I was desperate to stop drinking. I knew I was headed off a cliff.
The cliff came four months later, when Chik-fil-A fired me for coming to work drunk with a bottle of liquor in my pocket.
Why did I do it? Especially when I knew alcohol was wrecking my future? I drank for the same reason all alcoholics drink. Because I was physically addicted and thought drinking would help me cope with the shame of living an alcoholic life. That’s what people in recovery call alcohol-brain. It culminates in shame-based drinking.
I went back to La Hacienda, the rehab facility I’d dropped out of.
“I’m wondering if you take people back,” I asked the woman at the intake desk. I braced myself for a curt no.
“Of course we do,” she said. “It’s great to see you, Ross. Welcome back.”
I was floored. Standing there at the desk I told her everything—how I’d returned to drinking a week into the program, then gotten fired from my job. My voice was heavy with defeat.
Matter-of-factly, the woman told me about La Hacienda’s four-week residential program in a small town about 200 miles from Texas A&M (not far by Texas standards). I decided right there that’s what I wanted.
“We’ve been praying so hard for you,” Mom said when I told her I was going to a treatment center.
Part of me wanted to say, “God doesn’t seem to be answering those prayers.” But that didn’t seem like the right attitude to start recovery.
La Hacienda combines the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step program with lots of support from treatment professionals—doctors, therapists, nurses—and other participants.
Determined to succeed, I blazed through AA’s steps one and two, admitting I was powerless over alcohol and that only a power greater than me could stop my drinking.
Then came step three: “We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him.”
What did that mean? I’d grown up in church. Hadn’t I already done that? If praying to God could stop alcoholism, I’d have been sober a long time ago.
“I don’t get this one,” I confided to a therapist.
“It’s not complicated,” he said. “You just have to be willing to do things you know are good for you even if you don’t really want to do them. Trust God to know what’s best and follow his lead.”
Do things you know are good for you even if you don’t really want to do them.
From the moment I took that first drink from my parents’ liquor cabinet, I’d been running away from this simple definition of growing up. I crawled inside a bottle and hid from the complicated emotions and difficult responsibilities of transitioning to adulthood.
“I’m tired of doing this alone,” I said to God. “Help me. I’ll do what it takes, no matter how hard.”
I graduated from La Hacienda, sober but still ashamed and unsure of how to live an actual adult life.
Together with two La Hacienda friends, I moved into a sober living house in Austin. While there I happened to attend an AA meeting at another sober living facility called Alpha 180.
It was a revelation. Everyone in the room was my age. Their stories were my story—underage partying leads to solo drinking leads to train wreck.
“I’m so ashamed,” one person after another said. “I feel like I let everyone in my life down. I want a different future.”
I didn’t know what my own future held, but I felt certain these meetings would help me figure it out. I spent so much time at Alpha 180, the director eventually invited me to apply to become a house manager, overseeing the living quarters and assisting with programming.
Alpha 180 helps residents become responsible adults by mixing service and accountability with opportunities to blow off steam. The house is deliberately located close to the University of Texas campus, in a part of Austin known for drunken parties.
The mission is to be a beacon of sobriety in a place dominated by the idea I once believed—that drinking and drugs are a shortcut to adulthood. We have fun—paintball fights, outings to movies and concerts. But we’re also collectively responsible for running the house, and we’re not afraid to be honest and vulnerable with one another.
I’m still growing up. I recently reenrolled in school, and I’m taking on new responsibilities at Alpha 180, writing for the house’s website and mentoring younger residents.
I’m excited about the future and no longer ashamed. I don’t have to drink to feel grown-up. I’ve been through a rite of passage requiring more change and growth than alcohol’s false promise.
I gave in and let God lead. I accepted the challenge of doing what’s right, even when I don’t want to. I encourage every young addict to embrace those life-giving marks of true sobriety. Of true adulthood.
One of the joys of hiking is spotting the wildlife around you. Do you know how to keep yourself safe while also respecting wild animals and their habitats? “For all wildlife,” says Leslie T. Sharpe, author of The Quarry Fox: And Other Critters of the Wild Catskills, “the first line of protection is to not startle or surprise them. It’s best to always watch ahead, and make some kind of noise so that they can hear you coming.” Here’s what to do if you encounter these animals out on the trail.
Black Bears
If you see a black bear ahead, keep your distance. This will allow the animal to carry on with its routine. If the bear spots you, don’t look it in the eye, Sharpe warns. “This is interpreted as a challenge.” Jessica Williams of Seattle, who hikes with her dachshunds, says it’s best to remain calm. “Unlike with a grizzly, avoid making yourself look threatening to a black bear. Instead, slowly back away. Don’t run, and never turn your back to the bear.”
If you’re worried bears might be nearby, keep them at bay by singing, clapping and banging sticks. Bear bells, whistles and alarms may also work. Carry bear spray and make sure you’re trained in how to use it.
Grizzly Bears
Grizzlies are a different story. They will try to intimidate you by false charging, Sharpe says. “Stand your ground, spread your jacket over your head and make yourself as big and tall as possible. If attacked, try to punch the bear in the nose. If it knocks you down, lie on your tummy, cover the back of your neck with your hands and don’t move. Hopefully, it won’t be hungry.”
Snakes
Even nonvenomous snakes can bite, so it’s best to give them a wide berth and wear leather boots to protect your feet. If you meet a rattlesnake, stay still and give it time to calm down, then back away.
If you’re planning to hike with dogs in rattlesnake territory, Amy Burkert of the travel website Go Pet Friendly recommends rattlesnake aversion training for the dogs, typically a six-week class to learn scent identification and an escape response.
Coyotes and Cougars
Never run or act like prey if you come across a coyote or a cougar. “Yell, wave your arms and maintain eye contact,” says avid hiker Kristine Tonks of Edmonton, Canada. If the animal is aggressive, throw your backpack in its direction.
Moose
Spot a moose? Don’t panic. These herbivores aren’t interested in you as prey. But if they begin to charge, run and hide. They can seriously maim with their powerful hooves.
Mountain Goats
Williams notes that encounters with aggressive mountain goats have prompted the closure of certain trails in Washington State. “Stay at least 50 yards away from a mountain goat,” she advises. “If a goat looks threatening, back away and yell to scare it.”
Alligators
Be alert for alligators when hiking along a waterway. Pamela Webster of Ithaca, New York, travels by sailboat with her husband and golden retriever. Her advice: “Never wade, or allow your dog to wade, in fresh or brackish water where alligators are likely to appear.” Especially at dawn and dusk, when gators are most active.
Being prepared and knowing how to react in these situations is key. Understanding how to protect wildlife while you’re in their territory is important too.
Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe to All Creatures magazine.
We all have self-talk affirmations that help us stay uplifted and positive. From “I am beautiful” to “I am good at what I do” to “I matter to the people in my life,” these mantra-like phrases are a helpful part of the routine of positive emotional hygiene.
However, positive self-talk isn’t always enough to sustain an upbeat outlook, particularly during a challenging time in life. Particularly for people who suffer from low self-esteem, depression or anxiety, telling yourself everything is going to be ok can feel hollow and inadequate.
According to Melody Wilding, a social worker who has researched happiness and human behavior, positive affirmations work at the level of your consciousness that’s closest to the surface. As she writes in Forbes, these statements “do nothing to contend with the subconscious mind where limiting beliefs really live.”
The first step toward sustainable positivity, Wilding says, is to give yourself permission to feel your feelings—all of them. That includes acknowledging that a stressful interaction at work left you feeling angry, a medical test triggered feelings of worry or a calendar slip-up has you feeling disappointed in yourself.
Wilding recommends a technique called “re-framing” to shift how your mind reacts to those negative feelings. She writes, “You might re-work your self-talk to sound more like, ‘I am a work in progress, and that’s okay.’ It’s pointing you in the direction of positive growth and is both realistic and achievable.”
Read More: How the Power of Positive Thinking Lives On
This advice came to me at just the right time. I am having one of those days where I feel like I am doing too many things—and doing too few of them well. So I put Wilding’s technique to the test, first acknowledging, “I am feeling overwhelmed and unfocused.” Then I created a re-frame: “I am proud that I have accomplished some things today. I am doing my best, and my best is enough.”
Can you re-frame negative self-talk to have a more positive outlook today?
Lauri Scharf, LSW, MSHS, is a Care Consultant & Master Trainer at Benjamin Rose Institute on Aging
Life is more complex than any family drama from the golden age of television may have had us believe. When mom, dad and the kids faced a sticky problem, they generally had it neatly resolved within the running time of that week’s episode—and pass the mashed potatoes.
Actual family dynamics tend to make problem-solving far dicier. When the real-life issue is an older parent who needs care, it can be especially difficult to reach a consensus of all involved. Maybe the bulk of the caregiving has fallen to the oldest daughter who has very specific ideas on the way forward but can’t seem to bring her siblings on board. The middle child always seems to be too busy with kids and a job to pitch in or come up with solutions. The “golden child” just talked to Dad, who said everything was fine and not to worry. Resentments are starting to boil over and any possible plan seems to have stalled at idle. Someone reluctantly proposes a family meeting. Now what?
Unwelcome as they may be, family meetings can be an invaluable method of working through problems and reaching good solutions. The process allows every family member to air thoughts and concerns and in doing so, to hear one another out. Holding a focused conversation in the service of a parent who needs attention can do much to clear up misinformation, and to prepare the best possible way forward. Here are some tips to plan for and carry out successful family meetings:
Preparing for the meeting
Planning ahead for a family meeting is as important as the actual meeting. First consider why it is you’re meeting. The logistics of bringing everyone together means coordinating schedules, but if the reason for the discussion is especially pressing—for example, your father is declining and your mother needs immediate assistance—then coordinating schedules, while challenging, is necessary.
If you do have to arrange a family meeting to discuss the care of a parent, it can be helpful to:
The meeting itself
Before the meeting begins, you may want to establish some ground rules like letting participants finish talking without interruption and refraining from side discussions. If a participant introduces a topic that wasn’t on the agenda, gently remind everyone what the meeting is about. It may also help to complete discussion of the first topic before going on to the second topic.
Hold to facts rather than feelings. Your parent may want to remain in his or her own home, but safety factors, ongoing oversight or worsening physical and emotional conditions may be deemed more weighty. It’s important to have as much information as possible on your parent’s condition or illness, as well as on how to access relevant community resources. Don’t shy away from discussing how to pay for necessary services and possible resources at your disposal, like IRAs, stocks, additional assets, etc.
Remember who this meeting is about. Respect your parent’s beliefs and values when making any decisions. If at all possible, involve your parent in the discussion and decision-making process. It is easier to exclude a person rather than asking them to leave if the topic becomes upsetting. Rely on documents such as Power of Attorney for Healthcare, Power of Attorney for Financial and Living Wills that have the wishes of your loved one already in place.
Moving forward
After everyone has aired their thoughts and concerns, work on a plan to move forward. Try to be specific about the steps you need to take and, if it’s feasible, draw up a timeline to complete them. Rather than assigning tasks, invite family members to offer to help in the ways they choose. Keep each person’s talents and strengths in mind:
“Caroline, you’re good at gathering information. Could you please reach out to the four health care agencies we discussed to find out what our first steps should be?”
“James, you do a great job maintaining your house, Could you please do an outside inspection of Dad’s home and figure out what we need to work on to get it into shape?”
All families have their own unique issues, which impact how each individual relates to the others. This, of course, includes lifelong relationships with their parents. Remind everyone that the purpose of this meeting is to protect the well-being of your parent. It’s not about repairing old disagreements or perceived injustices. At the same time, it does provide the opportunity to redirect expectations and outcomes as a team. Communicate with “I” statements (I feel…, I need…). Even when you’re not all on the same page, look for the one truth you can agree upon.
You may also want to involve a moderator in the family meeting to maintain the focus, solicit feedback from all the family members and assist in determining how to move forward. Social workers, ministers and Care Consultants are all good options. Often, family meetings arise out of a crisis and arriving at your next steps can be of the essence. A moderator can help you figure out what you need to do right away, as well as offer ideas on further steps you might not have considered. This person may also have valuable experience to share about how to access community programs and other resources.
The nitty-gritty comes after the meeting, as each person begins to take constructive steps. The moderator can be a great asset, guiding you to work through any obstacles that arise, providing positive reinforcement and serving as a touchstone for the entire team. The good news is that once you’ve established a spirit of cooperation and collaboration, the next family meetings should be far less daunting.
Navigating the passage to adulthood with health and sobriety can feel like a challenge for teens and their families. Many people assume alcohol and drugs are a harmless, or at least universal, rite of passage.
In fact, research shows that alcohol and drugs can seriously damage young people’s brains. Chemicals in alcohol and drugs alter brain development and increase the likelihood of developing a substance use disorder. People who start drinking before age 15 are four times more likely to develop a substance use disorder.
Teens often assume everyone in their peer group or school uses drugs or alcohol. Research shows the opposite. Fewer than 30 percent of all American teens report drinking alcohol even once a month. Substance use seems widespread because it gets a lot of attention in popular culture and on social media. Most kids, though, don’t drink or take drugs.
The best way to prevent teen substance abuse is to maintain strong family bonds, set clear expectations and educate kids about the harmful effects of drugs and alcohol.
Signs of a possible substance use problem include sudden changes in a teen’s friends, grades, activities or attitude. Parents who suspect a problem should not assume they can handle things themselves. Seek advice from school counselors, treatment professionals or trusted online sources. Established treatment organizations such as Caron feature a range of educational materials on their websites.
The transition to college and the freedoms it allows can be challenging for young adults. Some students, especially those who were already using in high school, may find that their substance use increases and so do the consequences.
Behaviors such as drinking to the point of blackout or memory loss, drinking heavily on a regular basis, or drinking or using drugs while alone are red flags for college students and their families.
As with teens, college students can help themselves stay sober by surrounding themselves with sober friends, staying focused on schoolwork and getting involved in campus or community organizations.
Research shows that it’s neither normal nor healthy for teens or young adults to drink or use drugs. Sobriety is an important—and eminently achievable—part of the transition to adulthood.
Christine Storm
Regional Director of Education,
Caron Treatment Centers
“Who is this again? You’re a friend of my mom’s?” I didn’t know the woman on the other end of the line and couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.
“Your mother is not doing well,” she said. “Her husband moved out and she’s in bad shape. She’s not eating. Not sleeping.”
“But I was just there a month ago, in June,” I said. “They were doing fine.” Mom was 72 and had married a year earlier, after a long time being single. I was glad that she would have a loving companion in her golden years. What happened?
Mom’s friend didn’t know the details. “Look, she needs someone to be with her,” she said. “Here, why don’t you talk to her?”
There was soft breathing on the other end, but no one spoke. “Mom?”
READ MORE: FAITH AND PRAYER HELPED HER OVERCOME DEPRESSION
Her voice was so faint I had to strain to hear. “I made a mistake.” That was all I could get out of her.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I said. “I’ll call Shelley. She’ll come stay with you for a few days.” My older sister would be moving to Germany with her husband soon, but for now she was still in Seattle, closer to our mom’s cabin in eastern Washington than I was in Los Angeles.
I hung up, bewildered. What was the matter with Mom? She didn’t sound like her bubbly self at all. She was the one who cheered me up when I was laid off or went through a breakup, reassuring me that I would bounce back. “Never forget that God loves you, Marni,” she would tell me. “He’ll see you through this.” I wished my faith were as strong as hers.
Mom will be fine, I thought. Probably just needs some TLC.
She didn’t get any better the week my sister was there. Shelley had her move to deal with, so we decided it was best to have Mom come and live with me for a while. The change of scenery would do her good. And she loved animals. She’d get a kick out of my sassy Chihuahuas, Taco and Tinker.
I made the spare bedroom in my rental house cozy and in late July I got Mom settled in. Or tried to, anyway. But I couldn’t seem to rouse her out of the strange torpor that had taken her over. She wouldn’t say more than a few words in response to my attempts at conversation.
She’d been a home-ec teacher and I thought I could get her to cook—or better yet, bake—with me, but she showed no interest in the kitchen and barely touched the food I made for her. She didn’t want to go for walks with me and the dogs; in fact, she didn’t take much notice of them.
She spent most of her time sitting on the couch, staring into space. Yet at night, she was restless, pacing the house when she should have been sleeping.
I didn’t like leaving her while I went to work. But I had just started a new job as a marketing writer—which, despite the high pressure and long hours, I knew I was lucky to have in a recession—and I couldn’t take time off yet.
I checked on Mom regularly, calling her on my lunch break and during my commute. In the evening I’d get home to find her in the same spot on the couch as when I’d left in the morning, as if she hadn’t moved all day. It didn’t seem to matter whether I was home or not.
Mom needed professional help. I took her to a psychiatrist. He diagnosed her with major depression, likely triggered by the emotional trauma of her husband’s rejection.
Depression? I’d thought it was more of a midlife thing, but the psychiatrist said the symptoms matched Mom’s: low mood and energy, lack of appetite, loss of interest in activities, insomnia, feelings of worthlessness.
“Depression can be debilitating,” he told me. “I’m prescribing an antidepressant, but your mother’s not going to get better overnight. It will take time. Six to twelve weeks for the medication to have its full effect.” He said I should give her the pills myself and keep them someplace where she couldn’t find them. “You don’t want her to skip a dose or, worse, overdose,” he warned me.
I followed the doctor’s orders and made sure Mom took her medication every day, then carefully tucked the bottle of pills away. I called her from work every chance I got. Sometimes I only had time to say, “I love you, Mom,” but I thought she needed to hear that as much as she needed medication.
READ MORE: WILLIAM STYRON ON DEPRESSION
I recorded uplifting TV shows for us to watch together. I’d sit on the couch next to her, watching her and hoping for some change in her expression. Even America’s Funniest Home Videos didn’t get so much as a flicker of a smile out of her. Which broke my heart, because my mom was known for her laugh—gentle, melodic, like a wind chime tinkling in the breeze.
I longed to hear her laughter again, to feel the lightness it always brought me, and even more, to have her feel that lightness of being again.
I tried not to give in to worry and impatience when I didn’t notice any improvement in her symptoms. It’s only been a couple of weeks, I told myself. The medication needs time to work.
Then one evening at the end of August, I came home from work to find my mother lying on the floor, unconscious. She’d found the pills and taken the entire bottle. Mom was rushed to the hospital. I stationed myself at her bedside. Her hand felt so small and fragile in mine. How could I have left her alone?
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Mom,” I said. “It won’t happen again, I promise. Just come back to me, please.”
She regained consciousness and was put on a new medication. After five days, she was released to my care and enrolled in an outpatient mental-health program in my neighborhood. Even though she would be there four days a week, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t work full-time and take care of Mom. I quit my job.
My friends thought I was being rash. “How are you going to pay your bills? How are you going to keep a roof over your head?” I didn’t have a plan. I figured I would use my credit cards, take money out of my retirement account if necessary. All I knew was that I had to do more for Mom. A lot more. She needed me!
Mom’s weight was down to 89 pounds. The only way I could get her to eat was to eat with her. She liked Mexican food, so I made chicken enchiladas smothered in cheese. “A bite for you,” I’d coax, “a bite for me.” I bought tubs of coffee ice cream, her favorite flavor, and we’d share them in front of the TV.
We watched a lot of TV. Hallmark movies, Dancing With the Stars. The new medication worked better, but Mom still wasn’t sleeping well. I stayed up with her, snuggling next to her on the couch to keep her company. Sometimes I dozed off, but I wanted to show her that she wasn’t alone, that I would be there for her, no matter what.
Mornings, Monday through Thursday, a care van would pick her up and take her to her therapy program. Going to school, I called it. Mom couldn’t stand it.
“I don’t want to go,” she’d say. “Those other people, they’re so negative.”
“What do you want to do?” I’d ask, hoping there was some activity that would lift her out of her funk.
The only thing she said was, “I want to be with you.”
All the more reason that I had to devote myself to Mom’s care. She’d devoted herself to raising me. This was my way of giving back. I stopped going out with friends. I didn’t date. I even quit volunteering with a community group teaching teen girls creative writing. Mom’s health had to come first.
As the months passed, her physical health gradually improved. She was eating again and gained weight. So did I, since I was eating right along with her. She started sleeping better. Yet emotionally, spiritually, she was still adrift, as if she’d lost not just her sense of self-worth, but also the faith that had anchored her all her life.
I tried to get her to read the Bible, or even some of my touchy-feely devotional books. She just shook her head. “God must be angry with me,” she said.
READ MORE: ON DEALING WITH DEPRESSION
“He’s not angry,” I said. “It’s like you always told me: God loves you. He’ll see you through this.”
Mom wasn’t persuaded. If I couldn’t assure her that God loved her, at least I could tell her how much I loved her, make her feel wanted and needed. I reminded her what a great cook and baker she was. “There are people who could use your skills,” I told her. “You can help them, like I helped girls with writing. And I might be in my forties, but I still need you to be my mom.”
I couldn’t understand why nothing I said, nothing I did, nothing I thought of, seemed to make a difference. Didn’t Mom want to get better? Meanwhile I’d maxed out my credit cards and been forced to dip into my retirement savings. The stress and frustration got to me. Except for walking Tinker and Taco and buying groceries, I hardly left the house.
After the care van took Mom to “school,” I’d sink onto the couch. I’d spend the hours she was at her therapy program napping, snacking or zoning out in front of the TV.
One day I was sitting there, clicking the remote with one hand and eating ice cream with the other. A spoonful fell on my pants. I halfheartedly wiped at the stain when it hit me. Here it was the middle of the afternoon, and I was still in my pajamas. Lazing on the couch stuffing my face, no less. How pathetic!
What kind of worthless excuse for a human being was I? Worthless. If this was how I felt, how much worse must it be for my mom? Suddenly I understood why she was so listless, why I’d find her in the same spot morning and evening. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to get moving and get better. She wasn’t able to.
Just like she wasn’t able to connect with God anymore. I sat up straight, energized. If Mom couldn’t pray, I’d pray for her, however clumsily. God, maybe I’m so burned out right now I can’t help Mom, but I know you can. Help her heal. Help her feel loved again.
Even though I didn’t see a change in Mom, I kept praying. And I felt a change in myself. An acceptance of things as they were, not frustration and helplessness that they weren’t where I wanted them to be.
One night in December, Mom and I were up late as usual, sitting together watching America’s Funniest Home Videos. The episode was all about animals. I was half asleep when I heard a sound that didn’t come from the TV. A melodic tinkling.
Like Mom was…laughing?
I glanced over. Her mouth was turned up the tiniest bit at the corners. “Ha!” she said again.
I’d never heard anything sweeter.
“That’s pretty funny, huh, Mom?” I said.
She nodded. “I haven’t laughed in a long time.”
I knew then that Mom had turned a corner. The psychiatrist had said recovering from depression would take time. I just didn’t realize it would happen in God’s time, not ours.
After that, I saw my mother healing a little more every day, rediscovering herself, her faith. Almost five years after she came to live with me, Mom and I are still roommates. Happy roommates. We go for long walks with Taco and Tinker. We cook together—healthier dishes than I was making on my own.
I went back to volunteering with the creative-writing group, and Mom has joined me. She’s putting her home-ec skills to good use baking cupcakes and cookies for the girls who come to the workshops.
As much as I love caring for my mom and being with her, I’ve learned to make time for myself too. I found a job as an online editor, so I work from home while she’s at her therapy program. I go out with friends, and I started dating a great guy. One of the things we bonded over was being caregivers for our mothers.
Not long ago, I asked Mom what she’d like to tell other people who are struggling with depression.
“That this too shall pass,” she said. “That time and love heal.” She looked at me and smiled. “I know that I am loved and cared for, and I am so grateful for that.”
I put my arm around her and held her close. “Me too, Mom. Me too.”
Read our tips for taking care of yourself as you care for a loved one.
Did you enjoy this story? Subscribe to Guideposts magazine.
NIA MOSTACERO
One afternoon, Nia found her TV remote in her refrigerator.
A few years ago, that would have sent the 46-year-old retired Air Force officer down a rabbit hole of fear. Was her early-stage dementia progressing? Her mind slipping away?
Instead, Nia switched on her favorite show. “I don’t sweat the small stuff anymore,” she says. “When you have Alzheimer’s, every day is a blessing. The future? That’s in God’s hands.”
Between volunteering at church, working out, reading her Bible and attending the young adult early-onset support group she founded, there’s not much time for relaxing. “You can still feel fulfilled with a dementia diagnosis,” Nia says. “Your life isn’t over.”
Her attitude wasn’t always so sunny. Twenty years into her Air Force career, she found herself making errors in her work. She put them off as stress. Then came the day she couldn’t remember how to start her car. The diagnosis, in 2017, was devastating. Her doctor gave her five to eight years to live.
Her military career over, Nia sank into a deep depression. Stopped going to church. But ultimately she realized she couldn’t face this enemy alone. She went back to church. Began talking to God all the time, rather than praying at set times. Through the Alzheimer’s Association, Nia found a support group, then started her own for people who are 65 and younger.
She finds strength in Ecclesiastes 4:9–10, with its ending message: “Pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.” Words Nia lives by.
“I feel like God is not allowing me to progress as quickly,” she says, “so I can help others.”
ROD STEPHENSON
Rod realized his dream of becoming a minister late in life. He loved ministering to his parishioners, preparing sermons, immersing himself in Bible study. But it’s now, at 75 and facing early-stage dementia, that he feels closest to God.
“God is in control. I know that more deeply than ever,” he says. “This isn’t my problem to solve, and yet I’m able to talk to the One who has all the answers. That gives me such comfort.”
Rod was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment in 2020. He had already left the ministry because of health problems. He and his wife, Deb, were caring for his mother, who was in the late stages of Alzheimer’s. No one had to tell them the toll the disease would take. “It was hard to think about anything but how this will end for me,” he says. “Deb cried every day.”
The couple called the Alzheimer’s Association 24/7 Helpline. “That was the best thing we could have done,” Rod says. “It connected us with other people who are on this journey.”
He and Deb began praying together, a practice that has strengthened their marriage. “I’ve learned how important it is to be open with your spouse,” he says. “It has created a deeper bond between us.”
Still, there are times when Rod battles negative thoughts. On those days, he turns to Scripture—Romans 8:38–39: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life…nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
“I’m reminded that every day is a blessing,” Rod says. “Alzheimer’s can’t take that away from me.”
For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.
Within the Sermon on the Mount in the Gospel of Matthew are found eight revolutionary teachings of Jesus, revelations of God’s mercy and unconditional love, and instructions on how to invite the Spirit into your life and fulfill your vocation as a disciple.They are simple guidelines on how to open to grace and bear fruit that lasts, how to access the peace that is available to us through faith.
Ever since I was a young girl, I looked to the Beatitudes as a source of comfort and consolation, a primer of hope.
For me all eight categories of people listed in the Beatitudes (the poor in spirit, those who mourn, the meek, those who hunger and thirst for justice, the merciful, the pure in heart, the peacemakers, and those persecuted for justice) are variations of the first group: the poor in spirit. Why are the poor in spirit so blessed?
Although there are many lessons of the Beatitudes, here are three that mean the most to me.
Lesson One: Everything is Passing
One reason the eight beatitudes offer so much consolation is that they suggest nothing is forever: those who mourn will be comforted, the merciful will obtain mercy, those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be satisfied, the pure in heart will see God.
While it is natural to see the state of our affairs as permanent, these eight promises remind us on the transience of all things. They speak of Teresa of Avila’s “Bookmark” prayer:
Let nothing disturb you,
Let nothing frighten you,
All things are passing;
God only is changeless.
Patience gains all things.
Who has God wants nothing.
God alone suffices.
To live the Beatitudes, then, means to live in the present moment to the best of our ability, to consent to life in all of its messiness. As Therese of Lisieux said, it means to “choose everything,” even our trials and dark nights, trusting that God uses all things towards good and there is meaning in all of it.
Lesson Two: Powerlessness Breeds Peace
In a recent meditation shared from his Center for Action and Contemplation, Franciscan priest Richard Rohr compares the language of Jesus, and I would add especially in the Beatitudes, to the spirituality of twelve-step groups: it’s about the gift of powerlessness. “We suffer to get well,” he writes. “We surrender to win. We die to live. We give it away to keep it. This counterintuitive wisdom will forever be resisted, denied, and avoided until it is forced upon us—by some reality over which we are powerless—and if we are honest, we are all powerless in the presence of full Reality.”
The Beatitudes call us back to powerlessness: to be among the lowly, the poor, the ones who don’t hold the reins and sometimes bear the brunt of injustice. We abandon the pursuit of power, prestige, wealth, and all empty values, to be a testament of God’s living word in our world, and to face the pain, rejection, and humiliation that accompanies our choice, only to find a peace in the surrender. There is an interior freedom in detaching from what we thought would provide us with security, and depending solely on God.
In his book The Eight Door of the Kingdom: Meditations on the Beatitudes, Fr. Jacque Philippe writes, “It is essential that one recognize—and always accept—one’s poorness and limitations, accepting myself as I am in my radical weakness, my fragility, an being reconciled to it, since I place my trust not in myself and my personal perfection but only in God.”
Lesson Three: There Is Grace in Paradox
The Beatitudes contain paradox after paradox: it’s an upside-down kind of theology: “Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so men persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
The hard part is trusting God with all of this upheaval, knowing that even though we can’t see the bigger picture, it all makes sense. Fr. Philippe writes, “When we cease playing at being life’s masters and consent to embrace what comes to us day by day, life becomes full of meaning.” He goes on to say that this means coming to terms with not understanding everything, not having answers to all the questions.
I find one of the most inspiring, universal messages of the Beatitudes is this: “God isn’t through with me yet.” I may feel rejected, sad, poor, persecuted, but the Kingdom of God is not yet realized – it is still going on, and therefore, I can’t know what this experience of suffering means, but it will all make sense in the end.
In her book No Crystal Stair, Diana Hayes, author and professor emerita of systematic theology at Georgetown University, wrote, “My life, a seeming paradox of contradictions and odd twists and turns, has truly been one where troubles of many different forms have always been in my way. Yet I know now, deep within me, that ‘trouble don’t always last.’ God is not through with me yet.”
Impermanence, powerless, and paradox are just three lessons of the Beatitudes. They say the same thing in different ways: to live the Christian life, we must believe and hope and keep walking in the darkness even when we can’t see. God is with the humble, with those who trust in Him.
You probably saw pictures of me all over social media this past April. I’m the dude who literally crawled across the finish line of the Boston Marathon. I was totally gassed. But nothing on earth was going to keep me from finishing, because it wasn’t just me. My left running shoe had the names of three comrades in Afghanistan whose lives had been destroyed by an IED.
“Adapt and overcome” was pounded into us in the Marines. I had to push through. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled to the finish line. For Ballard. For Hamer. For Juarez.
Running had never been a thing with me. I had to do it in basic, and I took it up again only at a low point, after returning to civilian life. Fighting overseas, I had been in charge of multimillion-dollar equipment and entrusted with the lives of fellow Marines. But back home in Ohio, I couldn’t get anyone to hire me. Finally I applied for work as an electrician and learned the trade. But my self-esteem was shot. Nothing was the same. My marriage fell apart, and my wife and I divorced. I was tortured by survivor’s guilt. Those guys who had died over there—couldn’t I have saved them somehow?
Did You Know Guideposts Helps Veterans and Active Duty Military? Learn More
I had enlisted in 2007, after one semester at Hiram College and one at Kent State. School wasn’t really doing it for me, and the idea of signing up for the military was appealing to me, sacrificing oneself for something bigger. I’d played football and basketball in high school and was in good shape. I figured boot camp at Parris Island would be a breeze. But I soon discovered that the real discipline for a Marine was mental. Learning how to tough things out. To be tougher than the enemy.
That mind-set came in handy when I was deployed. I was a machine gunner with the First Battalion, Third Marines—the Lava Dogs. I did two deployments, first in Iraq, then in Afghanistan. We did about 400 missions altogether. My mom wasn’t crazy about me signing up for the military and had given me a silver charm to keep in my flak jacket, a little angel with wings. I hung it on a piece of cord when I sat up there in the gun turret. January 9, 2010. Afghanistan, deep in Taliban territory. I was worried about fellow Marines Mark Juarez and Matthew Ballard and the British journalist who was embedded with us, Rupert Hamer.
Get a Free Booklet Created Especially for Service Members and Veterans
I was the lead machine gunner and the first squad leader, in charge of six other gunners. Our staff sergeant knew I had a lot of experience and had asked me where we should put everybody in the convoy. I placed myself in the first vehicle, which was usually the most dangerous position, the one most likely to hit an IED. Ballard and I had become good friends. He was expecting a son back in the States—I didn’t want him to be at as much risk. I didn’t know Juarez and Hamer as well, but I knew they had families back home. I put the three of them in the last vehicle, where I figured they’d be safer.
IED stands for “Improvised Explosive Device,” also called Improvised Expletive Device. You’re constantly on the lookout for them. I mean all the time. And it’s still not good enough. Our convoy was hauling supplies, journalists and fellow Marines between bases. It was early in the day when we hit that deadly 400-pound IED. It didn’t explode under the first truck—the one I was in. Instead it exploded under the last vehicle. Hamer and Juarez were killed instantly. Ballard was thrown from the turret and landed on the ground, both legs shattered. There was screaming and blood and debris everywhere.
Instantly we reverted to our training. We created a 360-degree safe zone around the convoy so Ballard could be medevaced out and the bodies of Hamer and Juarez could be airlifted out. We who remained stayed focused. Once the casualties were taken care of, we had to move on. We had to complete our mission. All the while I asked myself, Why hadn’t I seen that bomb? Could we have avoided it?
Later on during that deployment in Afghanistan, I hit two more IEDs and survived both. The first one didn’t go off. It had been wired wrong. We were lucky, really lucky. Yet deep down a part of me wondered if I didn’t deserve to be blown up too.
The second one was a powerful 50-pound bomb. The blast knocked me out, my ears ringing, but I wasn’t bleeding anywhere. I still had my arms and legs. We had music playing in the truck that day, and somehow the iPod survived the blast. The song I heard while the doctor was checking my vitals was Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel.”
The Marines wanted to medevac me out, but I knew if that happened I wouldn’t be able to return to my buddies in the platoon. I would have been sent back to my duty station. Instead I stayed at the base and didn’t go on any missions for a week, trying to clear my head. We got mortared on the base that same week. More explosions, more screams, more destruction.
I was honorably discharged after four years. I had served my time and served my country. It was when I was back home in Ohio that the survivor’s guilt hit me big-time. Here I was, safe, close to family and friends. But I didn’t feel safe, wracked by memories, horrible nightmares waking me up at night. I loved my wife, Sarah. I didn’t know why we couldn’t keep our marriage together. I was a mess inside, as if a bomb had gone off inside my soul.
It was then, living by myself, that I took up running. I’d heard that you could get this runner’s high when you increased the mileage, and I needed something to take me out of myself, something to release me from my feelings. I’d put those men in the last vehicle. I’d chosen the spot where two of them would die instantly. For months I’d held out hope for Ballard. He made it to Walter Reed and endured multiple surgeries to repair his shattered legs. He came home to be with his wife and son. But things went bad for him. The pain was so intense; the painkillers were too many to count. He died of a heart attack.
I ran outdoors under groves of trees along Ohio’s Freedom Trail. I thought of Ballard, Hamer, Juarez. Three names. I knew those guys were in heaven—they’d done their best. I wanted to do my best for them here on earth. I started this habit of praying their names as I ran. Every day running a little further, a little faster, staying close to them. Inhale—“Ballard”—exhale. Inhale—“Hamer”—exhale. Inhale—“Juarez”—exhale. Someone suggested I run a half-marathon. I did it in Canton. Then a marathon. I did that in Canton too, fueled more by guilt than anything else. My work was going well. I ended up being hired as a substation electrician for FirstEnergy Ohio Edison. If only this sense of responsibility for my comrades’ deaths would leave me. It was the thing I could not outrun.
Sarah and I started talking again, slowly rebuilding the trust between us. In 2017, we remarried. She could see the change in me since I’d taken up running, the healing that was going on. That I was trying. The guilt was never completely gone, but I had a way to fight it. And I felt as if I was doing something to honor my fallen comrades.
It was Sarah’s idea, putting their names on my shoes. By the time I was running the Boston Marathon, we had the good news that we were expecting our first child.
Meet Marine Veteran Kirstie Ennis, Wounded Warrior and Mountain Climber
I wouldn’t have scripted it the way it turned out, crawling to the finish line. What an inglorious end for a Marine. Some people saw that shot of me on my hands and knees and thought maybe I’d just knelt down to thank God. Well, I wouldn’t have crawled to do that. But I did say a prayer for 26 miles with every inhale and exhale. Ballard. Hamer. Juarez. Those guys felt very near. I’ll run in their memory forever.
When that bomb went off, I too was injured, a moral injury that tore into my soul, throwing off all sorts of spiritual shrapnel. I feel as if I am trying to put my soul together with every mile I run, outpacing the guilt that exploded that day on the battlefield. Every mile I run draws me closer to God.
For more inspiring stories, subscribe to Guideposts magazine.
